


A True Pylades

by BlackWingBecci



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, M/M, a load of self indulgent mess really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-26 00:40:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackWingBecci/pseuds/BlackWingBecci
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt - E/R. Grantaire wasn´t always a rejected Pylades. On the first night they met he awed a young, still-starting-on-politics Enjolras by shutting up some people who refused to listen to a rich pretty boy, and helping the teenager get enough self-confidence to go on with his speech. The second night they met, though, was the first time Enjolras saw R. drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A True Pylades

**Author's Note:**

> No real ending, this is more of a canon expansion or a study rather than an actual story with an anywhere near decent plot.

All Enjolras wanted to do was help people. He had spent most of his life sheltered by the privilege his parents’ money provided and couldn’t see the problems that troubled his beloved France. But, once he had left the shadows of his father’s reach and entered the true world of Paris he saw the truth. They were meant to be living in a time of change, a time of revolution, yet Enjolras saw how those less fortunate still lived in squalor, how they were still  
oppressed and then ignored, how their cries for help went unheard.

_‘Harken and awaken to our cry of woe’_

He had heard the cries, he had awoken to the injustice in the world. And he wanted to help. He wanted to reach out to the people, inspire them to rise up and fight for what they deserved, like Robespierre and Sieyès had done before him. He wanted to go to the bars and cafés of Paris and spread his beliefs, inspire a fire in the people, encourage them to stand. He believed the people would rise with him, they would fight with him and finish what was started years before. They would drag themselves out of the hole they had been thrown in and stand proud.

_‘strong the race shall show, though puny now it seem, and fallen low’_

That wasn’t what happened though. At the first bar he went to, he was forced to leave to grumbles about ‘the pretty rich boy’ before he could even begin speaking or handing out the pamphlets he had made with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. At the second bar, he managed to get some pamphlets distributed before he was thrown on the street and threatened to never bring his obvious revolutionary beliefs there again. He didn’t understand it at first, how they could tell he was rich or how he was being obvious when he was handing out pamphlets as discreetly as possible. It was only when he reached his third stop, a small café, and saw the rough, dark clothes all the patrons were wearing, that he realised it was the pristine, blood red jacket he wore over his shirt. So before he entered he shrugged it off and hid it behind other coats hung inside the door.

And it worked at first. The barmaid took a pamphlet with curiosity and agreed to give a few to regulars she thought would be interested and Enjolras was able to move to the centre of the room with only the casual glances he was used to his looks getting him wherever he went. Though once he started speaking, it didn’t matter that he had taken the red jacket off. The men around him who actually paid attention to his rather quiet call to attention, quickly jumped into mocking him when they heard the words of his speech.

“You think you can speak for us, rich boy?”

“Maybe the pretty boy just likes the attention, we should give him more.”

Enjolras tried to ignore the jeers and the taunts and focus on the paper he had written his speech on. His hands were almost shaking and his palms were sweaty. He wanted to tap his foot just to get rid of his nervous energy and he felt as though his throat was about to close up and block the already too quiet words. He struggled over the speech Combeferre and Courfeyrac had adjusted for him as more people began to join in the mocking. The mocking that was steadily becoming more threatening.

“What do you know about injustice and oppression?”

“What would your Father say about your pamphlets?”

“How about you have some wine and teak a seat on my lap?”

“Look at the mighty lord stooping down to bless us with his beauty and wealth!”

_‘stoop thou to raise us!’_

Enjolras was lost. He didn’t know what was wrong. He was confident, independent and sure in his beliefs. So why was this mocking getting to him? Why were his hands and knees shaking, his eyes stinging and his brain telling him to run from the situation? All he wanted to do was help people. But the people were rejecting him.

“Enough!” A rough voice called through the mocking and the men fell quiet.

Enjolras turned to the door and saw the owner of the voice. The man stood there was average height and slightly overweight, with a crooked nose, stubble covering his jaw and wild, dark curls. However, he held himself with confidence as he faced the men who had been mocking Enjolras and his blue eyes shone brightly with the intensity he stared them down with. Enjolras thought he looked remarkable.

_‘this warrior Pylades will come’_

The man was holding Enjolras’ red jacket in his hand and when he finally turned his bright eyes to the blonde, Enjolras felt his unsurety start to fade away at the indeterminable but positive emotion he saw in them. The man moved forward to stand in front of Enjolras and ripped the paper from his hands and replaced it with the jacket.

“Put it on, and speak your mind, not these words.” The man told him and crumpled up the paper, before speaking to the patrons of the café. “Anyone who doesn’t want to listen can leave, everyone else can shut up and pay attention.” Enjolras felt a wave of panic at first, thinking of how hard Combeferre and Courfeyrac had worked on the speech, but then understood what the man was saying. _They_ had worked on the speech, and that’s why _he_ couldn’t work with it. He put the red jacket back on, not sure why he was trusting the advice of the stranger, but knowing it was the right thing to do.

_‘I hold thy counsel good’_

Enjolras turned back to the room and spoke what was on his mind. He spoke of his beliefs, of his hopes, of his desire to help the people. He spoke of the revolution that came before them and how they should carry it on. He spoke of the rights that every person deserved but the people of France were being denied. He felt the fire of passion and belief burning through his body and he felt confident again, he felt he was reaching the people. The men who had been mocking him had retreated to a corner to drink by themselves and everyone else was actually listening to the words he spoke, to his message. And it was the strange man who had helped him, a man who Enjolras was sure was meant to be a part of his revolution.

_‘an unreachable destiny’_

-x-

Grantaire had gone out to get drunk, like he did every night. Since he was young, a good drink was the only thing he could be sure of. He saw nothing good in the world. It hadn’t always been like that for him. When he was younger, he had seen hope and beauty and joy in the world, but disappointment had destroyed all that. Now he saw the truth of the dark and terrible world, and it reflected back onto his dark and terrible life.

_‘now am I lorn with sadness, darkened in all my soul’_

He had seen the worst France could offer, and the best, though that wasn’t much better than the worst. He had seen theft and murder in the street, seen people pushed and pulled and stabbed for nothing more than a crumb of bread. He had seen the rich and wealthy not even glance at the poor and starving dying at their feet. He had seen parents lose their children, women abused in crowds of men, people wishing for death because there was nothing else for them.

_‘schooled in many miseries’_

He went to one of his usual bars, just looking for a cheap and strong bottle of wine to drown out the miseries of the world, but instead he found himself something else. He had not yet managed to get the barmaids attention when a young rich man walked in. The man was the most gorgeous person Grantaire had ever seen. His golden blonde curls fell from the tie held his hair back from his gorgeous face and his strong features reminded Grantaire of the Greek marble statues he spent so many hours looking at. There was a fire in his eyes and his body seemed to radiate light in the otherwise dark world.

_‘in midst of darkness lying, hope’s counter-gleam of fire’_

The other patrons of the bar realised what Grantaire had. The man was rich and drew attention to himself. He didn’t belong in that bar. One of the workers barman immediately moved to manhandle him out of the door as throughout the room murmurs and groans about ‘the pretty rich boy’ broke out. The barmaid came to Grantaire to take his order, but he ignored it in favour of following the blonde out of the bar, the desire for wine suddenly more manageable than it had been before. All he could think was how he wanted to stay in the presence of that man.

_‘follow, seek him’_

He followed the man from the bar, noticing how his shoulders had slumped slightly and the fire in his eyes lessened from being forced out. Grantaire had no idea what he was doing, what he could possibly want from a run-down bar like that, but he felt the undeniable urge to help him get it. He followed him all the way to another bar, another bar he had frequented before as well, and managed to get a hold of one of the pamphlets he was distributing. It spoke of revolution and change, of fighting for the rights of the people, and it just made Grantaire want to get drunk. He felt sorry for the blonde and his idealism, he didn’t want to see anything disappoint the marble god that he had followed, but he knew it would. He followed when the man was forced out of the second bar as well, the oblivious idiot not noticing how obvious he was being for such a mainstream bar with his pamphlets and his bright red jacket.

He watched as the fire dimmed to almost nothing as they walked to the next stop, a small café, one which would probably be more receptive to the blonde’s beliefs. He felt a stab of disappointment as the man took off the red jacket Grantaire thought was perfect on him, but was glad for the chance to see the body of the blonde that was hidden underneath it. He followed him into the café as well, realising that as long as the blonde was there he was hopeless to do anything but follow him.

He leant against the wall by the door and watched his new obsession give a few pamphlets to the barmaid and made small conversation with her. Grantaire took the opportunity to fish out the red jacket from where the blonde had hidden it and held it tightly as the man moved from the bar and to the centre of a group of tables. He didn’t like the way some of the other men in the room looked at the blonde, the way they leered at him or sized him up. Pangs of jealousy spread through his body but he did all he could to suppress them. The blonde didn’t belong to him, and he never would. Even if Grantaire ever had a chance with someone like him, Grantaire couldn’t imagine holding back someone who was obviously destined to be set free. Someone who was obviously destined to burn brightly and freely.

_‘freedom’s light hath come’_

The man gave a small call for attention, which Grantaire didn’t hear from where he was standing and he rolled his eyes at the ineffectiveness of it. When he saw the man in the first bar he was sure of the blonde’s confidence and passion, and this nervous, broken pale imitation was not impressive. He hugged the red jacket to his body and thought he could still feel some warmth radiate from it, surprised at the way it made him feel warm inside in a way he hadn’t in a long time. Though that warmth didn’t matter when he heard the men start to mock his blonde Adonis. He only heard snippets of the awkward and clumsy speech the blonde was giving, but even in his perfect yet nervous voice it was awful. Grantaire could see the true, but ridiculous, beliefs the man held under it, and couldn’t understand why he didn’t just speak of those instead. The mocking got worse and worse until Grantaire couldn’t bear to heart it anymore or watch such a powerful, passionate man fall apart in front of his very eyes. He had to do something to help.

_‘bring Orestes home’_

“Enough!” He called out, drawing the attention of the entire café. He felt the blonde’s eyes fall on him and tried to move past the rush and the joy it brought him to know someone that amazing could actually see him, could actually exist on the same plane as him. He walked to the man, using everything he had in him to not just fall to his knees in front of him and beg for some attention, and replaced the paper in his hands with his jacket.

“Put it on, speak your mind, not these words.” He told him, confused by the confidence and surety in his own voice. He turned to the room, not able to look at the man any longer.

“Anyone who doesn’t want to listen can leave, everyone else can shut up and pay attention.”

He was lucky he had never been here before, so the patrons didn’t know how much of a mess he was and actually listened to him.

He stepped away and let the blonde start again, confident and sure once more in his blood red jacket and his own beliefs. He listened to the words that fell from the perfect lips and let the perfect voice wash over him, though he still saw no truth in the words. He would never believe what the man was saying, he would never believe that anything could change, that hope could actually mean anything in a broken world like this. But he could believe in the gorgeous, striking, passionate ‘pretty rich boy’ that changed him the moment he laid eyes on him.

He left before the blonde finished his speech, knowing that it was better to leave him with the only good impression Grantaire could ever give him than let him see the truth of who he really was. And that night as he drank at home he thought of the revolution that man could start and the death and destruction it would end with, instead of the justice and change the man deserved.

_‘the saviour that should be’_

-x-

After his first night at the small café, Enjolras had gone on and spoken at more cafés and bars and had started attracting some attention for his cause. He encouraged Combeferre and Courfeyrac go forward and begin canvasing themselves, and their group was slowly growing. And Enjolras knew who he wanted next to join their inner circle, who he needed to be involved. The dark haired man who had given him the confidence to speak the first time. He went back to that first café where he met him as often as possible and had made a base of operations in the back room. Yet he hadn’t seen the stranger again.

One night, however, when he found himself at the first bar he had ever visited – more prepared with rougher clothes – he saw familiar dark curls and a familiar frame. It was him. He moved to talk to the man but stopped when he noticed the empty wine bottles on the table he was sat at, the ungraceful way he lolled in his seat and the way his blue eyes were dull and lifeless under the effect of alcohol. He wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t want to approach him given how drunk he obviously was but he remembered the way he had helped him, fought for him, that night and couldn’t just walk away in case he never saw him again.

“Excuse me.” He said as clearly as possible as he neared the table the man was slumped at and saw the flicker of recognition when the man looked up and the blue eyes fell on his face.

“If it isn’t the beautiful Antinous.” The man announced and raised his wine bottle in mock salute. Enjolras bristled at the mocking, not able to understand what the name meant or the man’s complete change in attitude – though he was sure the wine had something to do with it. “Antinous attracting everyone with his great beauty.”

“My name is Enjolras.” He told the stranger. He was obviously educated and Enjolras had seen how strong and confident he could be, so maybe the drinking was just a one off, maybe something terrible had happened to him. Because if there was one thing Enjolras did understand, it was that the man’s smile and joy was faked.

_‘all joy abandoned here’_

“Have you come to share your beliefs to the unsuspecting patrons of this fine establishment?” The stranger asked and then laughed, low and hauntingly. Enjolras didn’t feel right with the man, not the way he had felt the last time they had been together, but he also knew it would feel wrong to walk away.

“I have come to spread my beliefs, yes, to inspire others to join the cause.” He spoke softly and carefully, not wanting to let the anger bubbling up inside him spill out. Like when the man had inspired confidence in him for his first speech, just being around him brought up the passion in him in a way he found hard to control. “I wish for you to join our cause, for you to fight to save France with us.”

The man laughed again in response, his laughter spreading out around the bar and drawing attention to them where they sat. Enjolras felt offended and betrayed – though again he did not understand why – and clenched his hands into fists stop himself from lashing out. He would unleash his anger on the people destroying their own country. He would help the people and fight for the rights they deserved. And he would do it with this man. This man that had helped him before, that had cared for their cause, that would be by his side when he led France to salvation. It was meant to be that way, it had to be that way.

_‘avenge the blood shed forth of old, with sudden rightful blow’_

“Your cause is hopeless.” The man told him, leaning forward into Enjolras’ face. Enjolras felt his warm breath against his skin and could smell the wine he had drank. He pulled back and tried not to see the disappointment that flooded the other’s face. “You can preach and inspire the people all you want, in the end none of it matters. The world is a terrible place, and it will always be terrible. No matter what you do, you can’t change anything.”

_‘stand and wrestle as we may, still stands doom invincible’_

Enjolras reached across the table and grabbed the man’s hand, unable to resist comforting the sadness and scepticism he saw in the man. His heart went out to him despite his anger at his drunkenness and dismissal of the beliefs Enjolras held dear.

“France is in trouble, and we cannot turn our back on her.” Enjolras told him, squeezing his hand and hoping to get through to him, hoping to reach the good person he knew was underneath the alcohol and scepticism. “The people are hurting, our race is broken, and I will fight for it. Let them come I say, let it be a fight. I will not back down from their might, but show them mine, I will not just except their right but make them see mine as well.”

_‘let their might meet with mine, and their right with my right.’_

The man stared at their joined hands for a while before he pulled his own back and took a long swig of wine. Enjolras wanted to reach him, but he didn’t know how break the scepticism that had such a hold on him.

“You’ll come striding in like Orestes looking for revenge.” The man grumbled to himself, but Enjolras heard the cutting words clear. “But you won’t be able to save France, all you’ll do is get yourself and others killed.” Enjolras felt his heart clench at the comment and knew there was no reaching the man that night, and he was unsure how much he even wanted to at that moment.

“You’ll see.” He said simply as he stood from his chair and then left a new pamphlet inviting the man to their next meeting on that table and walked away. He ignored how wrong it felt, he ignored the way his mind screamed for him to run back. The man had been right about one thing; saving France would be a hard battle, and Enjolras didn’t have time to focus on anything else.

_‘with hand upon hilt himself will thrust with glaive, thrust and slay and save’_

-x-

Grantaire was surprised the blonde god had found him again – because that’s what the man became in his mind. He had not stopped thinking about his encounter with the man and the hopelessness of it all just made him want to disappear. Since he couldn’t make that happen, though, instead he drank. He was already well on his way to drunk when he reached the bar that he had first seen the blonde at, going there and relishing in the pain of knowing he could never be what the man wanted. He couldn’t be anything, he was nothing.

_‘slow, friendless, cursed of all should be mine end, and pitiless horror wind me for the grave’_

The man’s voice filled Grantaire’s entire soul with just the two words he spoke to get his attention and he felt something align inside him as he looked up at him. He felt like he was meant to be by his side, meant to be below him, venerating him, but he knew he couldn’t be. He wanted to be that, he wanted to spend the rest of his life, no matter how short or long, with the blond. And when the man touched his hand, he felt his soul burning in the fire the man possessed, knowing the man would consume all that was left of him, and he would welcome it.

_‘soul in madness pining, wasting as with fire’_

Grantaire didn’t pay attention to what left his mouth that night, though he knew it upset the blonde, he knew it ruined any good impression he had of him. But after that night he carried on following. He followed to the next meeting, he followed to every meeting after, and he followed to the revolution. And along the way he relished in any attention he got from the blonde, even if it was just biting words of hatred and sharp remarks on his worthlessness – as though he didn’t already know it.

_‘thrill your heart with the just tidings of my tongue’_

He couldn’t leave, he couldn’t stay. He was caught in a limbo of which there was no escape. His place was beside the blonde revolutionary who fought for the people, even if the blonde lost all desire to have him there. Yet, he did not want to see the man who meant everything in Grantaire’s broken world suffer, lose everything and die. For Grantaire had learnt that if there was one destiny every person in the world had, it was to be doomed and suffer.

_‘learn ye how to all and each the arm of doom can reach’_

-x-

Stories have been told for hundreds of years about destined couples in history; Orestes and Pylades, Achilles and Patroclus, Alexander and Hephaestion. However, stories about Enjolras and Grantaire were not told for long. Yet their story deserved to be told. Stories deserved to be told of Enjolras' bravery in the face of death, in the face of the potential failure of his cause.

_‘I will dare to die’_

And stories deserved to be told of Grantaire reaching his destiny, taking his true place beside Enjolras and dying, not for the cause, but for him.

_‘attoned and purified by death’_

For in the end, whether accepted or unaccepted, Grantaire was a true Pylades.

_‘this his own and that the foot of one who walked with him’_

**Author's Note:**

> All the italicised quotes are from Aeschylus' 'Oresteia'
> 
> -‘The Libation Bearers’ and ‘The Eumenides’, in The Complete Surviving Plays of Aeschylus: 7 Classic Tragedies, translated Kindle Edition, Waxkeep Publishing
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr - blackwingbecci


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